Betrothed to the Enemy
by Makori
Summary: The Spanish-Russian War is finally over. In compensation for the killed Russian King, Isabelle offers her daughter along with what the Spanish have left of their gold for a peace treaty. Can the new princess and the current prince actually get along?
1. Prologue

**Betrothed to the Enemy**

Prologue: A War to End All Wars

_Terra date: Winter 76, 1914_

The Russian tank groaned as it advanced up the hill, protecting the crew inside from the deadly hail of Spanish bullets being fired from the machine guns defending the city. Behind the metal monstrosity, a squad of infantrymen, clutching their rifles and scrambling up the slippery slope, tried to match speed in order to avoid being chewed up by the storm of lead. At regular intervals across the hill, there was another Russian tank or two grouped together and slowly advancing, firing on the city as they went.

One man in particular chugged along the slope with seemingly inhuman speed, catching up to the tank several times and waiting for his comrades to catch up to him. Long reddish hair poked out from under his helmet, and he waved, yelling, in Russian, "Come on, guys! We're almost there! Madrid is in sight!"

The sergeant snarled back at him "And I believe you're supposed to be behind me, Crown! What the hell do you think you're doing, get back down here!"

Crown, however, paid the sergeant no attention, and kept going, regardless of the profanity being thrown up at him. The deep boom of the artillery guns further down the hills thundered out across the dirt, knocking a few soldiers over, but the infantrymen were more or less used to it by now. They hadn't been trying to take this hill slash city for two hours to give up now, and the artillery had been a big part of that. Russian and Spanish planes soared overhead, blasting each other out of the sky. Indeed, it seemed the Spanish Navy wasn't Isabelle's only militaristic pride and joy. Russian bombers, on destination towards the city to drop their heavy explosive payloads, were being peppered and had the turret gunners had to shoot for all they were worth to live long enough to pull away from the city. Crown couldn't imagine what kind of hell it was like for the fighter pilots.

After the Russian artillery had opened up, the Spanish guns answered, as well as a few mortars, which smashed into the oncoming tank's armor. However, the steel behemoths were not the Spaniards targets, as was show by one round exploding directly behind one tank, tearing the infantry to shreds. Having lost the men it was guarding, and seeking revenge for said perished comrades, the tank accelerated up the slope, firing both barrels for all it was worth. The rounds smashed into the outer wall around Madrid, barely making a scratch, but shelling the Spaniard soldiers with shrapnel and falling brick shards. The lone tank finally made it to the top, about to head for the gate, when suddenly, a rocket launched itself from a spider hole in the hill, smashing into the unarmored treads on the flank, sending the entire tank up in a flash.

"Bazookas!" came the yell over the radio headsets, and the tanks stopped, firing in earnest on the machine gun positions to clear a path for the infantry.

Crown surged out from behind his tank, roaring in anger as he cursed in Russian "You bastards want some of this! Come eat some Russian lead!"

His assault rifle began coughing as he pulled the trigger, firing in bursts as he ran until the gun clicked empty. Well, the magazine was, but the under slung grenade launcher wasn't, and he fired this as he rolled behind another tank, to the surprise of the other infantrymen behind it.

"'Scuse, me, got some Spaniards to kill." He muttered as he stood up again, reloading as he did so before he leapt out into the open again, firing as he went.

Once more, his gun ran dry, and he dropped behind a rock lip to reload after firing his grenade launcher once more. This shot actually did some damage, however, as the screams in Spanish from one of the machine gun nests rang out.

"How do you like that? Now you know how my father felt!" Crown snarled as he crossed the last hundred feet to the sandbags, diving into the trenches, rifle firing in one hand, pistol in the other.

Swiftly, he cleared out the trench he was in, then climbed up, firing at the spider hole before tossing a grenade, which exploded right at the Spaniard's feet. Whooping, Crown started for the gates, pulling a large bundle of explosives out of his hip pouch, ready to slap them on the large, wooden obstacle. Two more Spaniards got in his way, only to be mercilessly gunned down, one Spanish bullet clipping Crown's arm. However, the excitement and adrenaline pouring through him blocked the sensation of the lead tearing out a bit of his skin as he ran up, winding the clockwork mechanism and slapping the pack onto the gates. His headset was blocking out any other sounds through his right ear as the reports of a lone soldier gunning his way up the hill from not only his own platoon but also from the tank crews crackled into his ear. Currently, they were all cheering in Russian, call him the 'Crown Bear.'

Crown grinned, pulling the pin on the explosives before running back down aways and yelling "Got it! Who's gonna stop me now?"

The answer to that question came in the form of a large caliber bullet tearing into his back, ripping through his right lung, and bursting out his chest. Crown staggered, trying to draw breath, but his other lung didn't seem to be able to draw enough oxygen. Crown fell to his knees, dropping his gun as the radio crackled "Sniper! Crown's been shot!"

And then, from his own sergeant, "Your highness!"

Crown, who was actually in fact Prince Nikolai of the Russian Empire, toppled over, his vision blacking out. The last thing he saw was someone in Russian regulation fatigues reaching down for him.


	2. The Meeting

**Betrothed to the Enemy**

Chapter One: The Meeting

_Terra date: Winter 90__th__, 1914_

Isabelle did not want to be here. Moscow was too far south for her liking, far too hot for her. In fact, the Spanish queen's forehead had already broken out, and she had to fight not to wipe her brow. How the Russian soldiers, dressed in their heavy khaki and orange fatigues, could manage to walk around like that with no consideration for the heat baffled her deeply. Her own soldiers had shed every piece of fur that was usually part of their uniform, down to only their under leggings and steel armor, and were still sweating up a storm. The officer of this platoon, Captain Rodriguez, took off his helmet and mopped his face with a rag, asking a passing Russian soldier "Is it always this hot here?" The soldier, who did not know Spanish, did not answer, and kept walking. Rodriquez muttered a few choice profanities under his breath that Isabelle, personally, agreed with whole heartedly.

The entire war had started with a friendly fire incident. A Spanish destroyer, patrolling in case pirates decided to strike the coastal town of Barcelona, had accidentally fired on a Russian freighter in the fog around it. The ship had been loaded with the first oil shipment from a new well from one of Russia's overseas colonies in the north, Yakutsk. The entire ship had gone up in flames, almost wrecking the destroyer itself. Normally, this would not be the grounds for an all out war. Unfortunately, the King of Russia, Peter himself, had been on that ship, excited as he always was to find new resources. As soon as Russia's remaining ruler, Catherine, heard of the tragedy that had befallen her husband, she had ordered immediate war on the Spaniards. Of course, as every great ruler knows, once a war is underway, it is almost impossible to stop halfway through. Isabelle had defended herself, not knowing the cause of the conflict until the crew of the destroyer had been tracked down and questioned. Isabelle, now aware of why she was under attack, tried sending numerous offers of peace to Catherine, only to have all of them turned down. Now, after two years of bloodshed, every Spanish city, down to the whaling and mining colonies up in the north, was under Russian control. It seemed that Spain was paying every inch for its mistake.

Isabelle looked over to her right, to her daughter, Maria. Diplomatic meetings like this one required both parties to bring all the elements of the royal family as well as a detachment of soldiers, and since Maria was all Isabelle had left to call 'family' she was required to accompany her. Of course, Isabelle was starting to wonder if Catherine ever would show up. Maybe this was all just a setup, a trap to pick off the remaining members of the Spanish royalty.

Just as her paranoia was beginning to set in, the doors opened, and a long room was exposed. A Russian servant stepped aside and beckoned the party in. Maria looked over at her mother, nervousness etched on ever line of her face. Isabelle could understand why. Her daughter had never been part of the politics she'd been through herself every day, and suddenly being thrust into a post-war conference as the losing side was not the best way to start.

Sitting at the long table were two other figures, on opposite sides, were the rulers of the dominating nations of the world. Emperor Napoleon, his arm in a sling from the brutal shelling Paris had taken, sat on her left, and the short Frenchman nodded at her, a small, pained smile on his face. Napoleon had been her trading partner for years, being the only other nation to share the continent Spain was on. Up until the fall of Madrid, France had also been Spain's ally, helping to defend her vulnerable flanks against the other ruler, the gracious, if not overconfident, Kaiser Bismarck of Germany, a militaristic nation spanning the islands between France and Russia. Germany had technology superior to anyone else in the world, and had been trading some of that technology to Russia, so it made sense that as soon as Russia had gone to war, they bring Germany along with them.

Bismarck did not smile at Isabelle, but his respect towards his opponents did make him touch the brim of his golden Kaiser helmet. She nodded back, then turned to speak to Napoleon, who was fluent in Spanish.

"I am sorry about your wife."

Napoleon's smile became a little tighter, but he nodded and said "Thank you. She had a large turnout at her funeral. At least the people loved her."

Napoleon's wife had been killed in the same shelling that had hit Paris. It seemed the Russian's considered things an eye for an eye, for after France surrendered, all of Catherine's forces pulled out of the French countryside, leaving them to Bismarck's mercy.

Bismarck himself sat looking stern as he always did. Overconfident as he was, he wasn't a braggart, and knew Germany's armies had taken too many losses for the small cities and islands to replenish anytime soon. Technologically advanced as they were, they never had more than a quarter of Russia's troop strength. It showed in the fact that, although Catherine could afford to fill her entire city with moderately equipped soldiers, and Isabelle still had enough men left for a platoon of personal guards, Bismarck only had two German soldiers standing on either side of him, holding triple-barreled shotguns and looking ready to leap in front of their dictator should things take a nasty turn. Napoleon's own bodyguards were his specially trained Musketeers, skilled with both blade and gun. There were four of them, each sporting the Fleur de Lies on their tabards across heavy bulletproof vests. The vests were the only piece of armor on the men so as to keep their mobility high, but with the speeds at which Isabelle had seen them move, she thought they wouldn't have to worry about that.

Now, that only left Catherine, and where the hell was she?

Her question was answered as the doors at the other end of the room opened, and several heavily armed and armored soldiers stepped in. They were Dismounted Cossacks, the best soldiers in Russia, whether riding or not. They were armed with German triple-barreled shotguns, and Isabelle's previous paranoid thoughts came back as the soldiers arranged themselves around the table in a ring.

However, they were once more laid to rest as the form of Catherine herself stepped through a break in the ring that closed up as soon as she was in. Isabelle frowned. Her son was supposed to be here, wasn't he? Bismarck's son was in sickness quarantine, so he had that excuse, but Catherine's son Nikolai was healthy, as far as she'd heard.

Catherine's smile was hard and cold as she gestured to the table, saying in Spanish, "Isabelle. Maria. Please, sit, and we can get this meeting underway."

Isabelle sat, as did her daughter, while her sweaty soldiers took position behind both of them. Isabelle did not bring up Nikolai, though by the unconcerned look on Bismarck's face, it wasn't anything serious.

Catherine's expression was stone as she said "Madrid and Paris are under our control. Both Russia and Germany have taken heavy loss from Spain and France. Therefore, Bismarck and I have agreed that the least we should do is charge you both for war damages."

Isabelle nodded, and after a moment, so did Napoleon. Bismarck snapped his fingers, and one of his soldiers produced a document from inside his uniform and handed it to him. Bismarck cleared his throat before saying "I have here, translated into French and Spanish, the approximate casualty and damage reports for Germany. Most of our losses were naval, and the infantry that we did lose numbered somewhere in the hundred-thousands. You shall pay for each and every man and woman's funerals, as well as the cost for a new navy and repairs to Cologne, the only German city to fall under attack. All in all, the total come around to about five-thousand gold."

Isabelle's jaw dropped. Five-thousand? Spain had just barely broken the twenty-five hundred mark! The war effort had drained away hundreds of gold, but they had never been wealthy enough to afford five thousand. For Napoleon, it wasn't so bad. As the country right smack dab in the center of all the others, trade had to go through there, and France was very wealthy. Napoleon's people would find themselves with half the money they had, but he could pay it all in full, and then still afford to repair France, battered as it was. But Spain would be in poverty for years.

Napoleon, knowing this, announced "I'll pay for Germany's damages. It was mostly France that fought her. Besides, Spain does not have the funds to repair Bismarck's country." Isabelle turned to him, a relieved smile on her face. Maria was watching the exchange with interest, wondering what would happen next.

Bismarck nodded, sliding the document to Napoleon, then turning and saying something to one of his soldiers in German. The trooper nodded, turning and leaving as the ring of Cossacks opened for him. The remaining soldier stayed where he was, angling his shotgun a little so he could more easily swing it up if he needed to.

Catherine nodded at the exchange before saying "Now we just have the issue of Russia, Isabelle."

In her personal opinion, Isabelle wondered what Catherine would pull to try and compensate for the loss of their King. Russia had taken the least amount of damage, having successfully fought off all attempts to attack it. Nearly all of their losses were soldiers and pilots. Catherine smirked slightly, as if reading Isabelle's mind, before she said "Spain has an ultimatum. Either you let us have full control of Madrid," Isabelle bristled at that. If they had control of Madrid, they would have complete control of Spain herself! Catherine continued "Or, you could pay me five-thousand gold, same price as Bismarck, for war damages. Our coffers were drained, and now we barely have a few hundred left. Or, you know," Catherine said suddenly. "You could come up with a counter-proposal. If you've got something we'll find suitable and that Spain can afford, we'll do it."

Isabelle began thinking fast, trying to come up with a good argument. Spain didn't have much.

"Well…first, Russia has to remove its troops from Spanish lands. We can't work with them breathing down our necks. You're free to occupy our forts, however. We now lack the soldiers needed to fill them."

Catherine nodded, saying "That's a high request. You must have something big in mind to trade for it."

Isabelle nodded, still trying to think fast.

"Spain will also provide laborers to repair Russian roads, buildings and rebuild the fleet and air force. But, we only pay two-thousand gold." Isabelle held her breath, hoping it was enough. Catherine thought it over a bit, talking to herself in Russian before looking up and replying "I think we're close to a deal. Maybe something else…?"

Isabelle's heart sank. Spain had nothing else to give!

And then, a thought hit her.

She frowned, then looked back up at Catherine, asking "Where is your son? Nikolai? I think he'll want to be present for what I'm thinking of."

Catherine frowned, shaking her head and saying "Nikolai is recovering from wounds he received during the assault on Madrid. It's customary for every potential candidate for the throne to serve at least one full term in the military after their seventeenth birthday. In fact, Nikolai helped a mechanized infantry company through the gates before a sniper got him. In any case, he's not suited to be moving around-"

At this, there was a commotion from behind the door behind Catherine. She frowned, looking over her shoulder before saying something in Russian to two of the Cossacks, who moved to the door. Isabelle could hear cursing in the same language, crashes and cries of pain. All the Cossacks in the ring were now peering curiously at the door, and the two Catherine had spoken to raised their shotguns, carefully advancing on the door…

Which flew open with mighty force, causing the two Cossacks to back up, falling to their knees to steady their aim. The German soldier put his own gun to his shoulder, and the Musketeers and gripped their swords. Behind Isabelle, the Spanish soldiers went for their assault rifles, and Rodriguez pulled out his sidearm, cocking the under slung barrel style revolver.

But what greeted them was not a team of assassins. Instead, it was a tall, wire thin teenager with longish, reddish hair pulled back into a short ponytail resembling Catherine's. His ice blue eyes were livid with fury, and he stormed into the room, yelling at Catherine in Russian while she did the same to him. It seemed they were having an argument. The Cossacks and German soldier all lowered their guns, relief on their faces. The Musketeers hesitated, but at Napoleon's signal they lowered their hands from their swords.

"Who is that, my queen?" asked Rodriguez in quiet Spanish, as her soldiers had not lowered their guns yet. Isabelle gestured to them, saying "Put them down, fools! That's Nikolai, heir to the Russian throne!"

Immediately, the soldiers lowered their guns, looks of fear on their faces as they glanced around at the Cossacks. Maria snorted, pulling an unruly lock of black hair out of her green eyes and muttering "So that's him? He even worse than I imagined." Isabelle hushed her daughter.

Finally, Catherine and Nikolai stopped arguing, and they both took a seat, Catherine saying "May I introduce my son: Corporal Prince Nikolai."

Maria frowned. "Corporal Prince?"

Isabelle nodded, muttering "In Russia, if an heir who has not yet taken the throne has served, they announce their rank before their title." Maria nodded to show she understood. "They do the same in Germany, too. Bismarck's son is Lieutenant Prince Shultz." Again Maria nodded. In order to deal with another country, you had to know their customs, however small they were. This was politics in and of itself.

Catherine gestured, saying "Isabelle, you said you wanted my son present for the next part of your offer. He's here, so what are you offering?"

Isabelle took a deep breath. This idea was her last, and if rejected, she could doom Spain forever.

"Well, I was thinking: Nikolai and Maria are near the same age, so what if they were to marry? Under the Russian flag, of course."

These few sentences accomplished what not even Nikolai's entrance had not; complete pandemonium.

Maria turned to Isabelle, shell-shocked and yelled "Mother!"

Nikolai had stood up and was yelling, in incredibly fluent Spanish, "I will not let my life be decided for me! And I will especially not marry some fragile Spanish canary!" At this, Maria stood up, snarling in Russian, which surprised Isabelle, who could not remember teaching the language to her daughter. Nikolai yelled back at her in the same language, and the two argued back and forth, up until Maria did the most surprising thing so far: she brought her hand up to her mouth and bit her thumb, the most insulting gesture ever invented. Nikolai's jaw dropped, his expression livid. Swiftly, he reached around to the nearest Cossack, wrenching away the soldier's shotgun, working the slide before turning it down the table toward Maria, who by this time had grabbed Rodriguez's revolver and had cocked it back. Both nations' soldiers now had their own weapons leveled and point at the opposite's own forces. The soldiers of France and Germany stood at the ready, weapons still holstered but at hand, he German gripping the shotgun tightly. Silence filled the room. You could have heard a pin drop. Isabelle's sweating had reached a new height, barrels now rolling down her cheeks, and it wasn't simply because of the heat.

For a full minute, nothing happened.

Then suddenly, Catherine's arm shot out, knocking the shotgun aside and slapping her son across the face. Nikolai, not expecting the blow at all, reeled back, dropping the gun and falling over, yelling in Russian again. At the same moment, Rodriguez had grabbed Maria's gun hand and, restraining her around the waist, yanked the revolver upwards to point at the ceiling, thankfully without pulling the trigger. The captain looked over at Isabelle with a regretful look and said "Sorry, my queen." Isabelle dismissed it with a wave and stood up, looking over at Catherine, who had successfully gotten her son into a headlock.

"Catherine!" she called, and the Russian queen halted wrestling with her son briefly to say "We'll take it!"


End file.
